I am writing to report that my Tauntaun still hasn’t arrived. How many times do I have to send you an effing change of address?
Never mind. It’s summer now and the thing would fry. Plus the shedding and the smell. It was a dumb idea anyway. Oh, don’t pretend like you knew that. This wasn’t the upshot of some cunning plan. You are grievously at fault, and are gonna have to make it up to me.
Wish one: I would like some genius history lecturer to take up podcasting, for starters, preferably in thirty to forty-five minute segments. I would further like for them to psychically cherry-pick all the topics that interest me while leaving out, for example… actually, I’m probably interested in any historical era if the speaker’s smart, savvy and deeply into it. See? I’m not impossible to please.
Wish Two: I would also like for someone to code an app, dammit, that counts up my various social network followships and presents the numbers in pretty charts, and maybe tracks changes to said numbers, too.
Yes, I know I could just look at the numbers every week and do it myself. The point of making a fucking wish is to get brightly colored and handily postable pie charts at the touch of a screen. This is why I’m asking imaginary magical beings (or bored programmers) instead of building a frickity fracking spreadsheet. Don’t be pert, Fairy Godmother . . . you’re already on the defensive, remember?
Anyway, the app is a solid idea. You and the coder could go halfsies, which would pay for Tauntaun feed and stabling. And don’t argue about that. It just plain serves you right.